What I Used to Think
by ShinyTogeticFTW
Summary: Reflecting on things that happened in the past, Joshua Christenson ponders his beliefs as they were back then compared to what he knows now. How much of what we used to think really ends up being true? And is truth ever born out of what we used to think?


What I Used to Think

This is what I used to think: that my parents' love for me was nonexistent. I don't think that anymore; I know how my parents really feel now.

My mother couldn't bear me, and my father doesn't even know I exist. But my parents love me more than anything in the world, more than my mother and father ever even loved each other. That's not what I used to think. But it's the truth.

My name is Josh. Joshua. I was named after the most famous man that ever walked this earth: Jesus. That's right; Jesus is actually rooted in the name Joshua; a nickname, like Josh. It wasn't really an uncommon name in Bible times.

But anyway, I'm getting off track. My name is Joshua Christenson. My mother's name was Meredith; Meredith Andrews. My father's name is James; James Thompson. My parents are Margret and Jacob Christenson. Confused?

Meredith Andrews met James Thompson on the internet. She was twelve. He was twenty-seven. James told her he wanted to meet her in person, so they made arrangements to get together in the local park. There he assaulted her and robbed her of her innocence.

Nobody ever heard or saw James Thompson again, but, to her dismay, Meredith Andrews could never forget him. Eight months later, Meredith was to be found in the hospital having contractions. It was the day of my birth …and her death. Not far away, in the same hospital, was Margret Christenson; forty-five and childless, she was giving birth also – she was fine, but the child was stillborn.

That was when I met my parents. You see, Meredith had been living with her grandparents, her widowed mother having died the same way twelve years before. Stephen and Patricia Andrews were in no condition to care for a newborn, much less a preemie, so with all the compassion in their hearts, they repaired a broken family with a broken piece of a family; they gave full custody of me to the Christensons.

I used to think that the Christensons were my mother and father, until the day we got word that Stephen Andrews had died. When they told me, I asked who he was, and for a while they couldn't speak, so grieved were they in their weeping. When they told me he was my real mother's grandfather and my great-grandfather, and that I was adopted, I didn't know what to say.

I accused them of being heartless for not telling me sooner; that's what I used to think it was: heartlessness. But when I met Patricia at the funeral, I learned otherwise. You see, Stephen's family had a history of heart problems, and he had already had two heart attacks even before my mother died. He had told my parents not to tell me about him and his wife until he had passed away. He had said that if I knew him as a small child, his death would be a traumatic shock for me, losing someone so close when I was still so young. He was comatose when I was seven, and had been in a vegetative state for two years before he died.

When Patricia told me all this, I saw the truth in my late great-grandfather's words; as horrible as it was for me to find out that my great-grandfather was dead, it would have been much harder to cope with if I had known him, spent time with him; in other words, having a close relationship with him.

"Patricia should come and live with us," I had said. "It'll be really nice to have my great-grandmother around, and she doesn't have anyone to stay with and keep her company since her husband is gone." That's what I used to think. As much as my parents liked the idea, she was a resolute and unwavering woman and she insisted that she wanted to stay at the house she had lived in for so long. Little did I know that she had been diagnosed with cancer and had been given less than a year to live. She knew that if she became close to me that the very thing my great-grandfather had feared would happen when she died.

Sure enough, six months later she was hospitalized, and the doctor said that the only thing they could do was to give her morphine to help relieve the pain until the inevitable time that her body shut down completely. And so it happened that at ten years old I was alone in the world, with none of my real relatives still alive. Because of this, I was a younger age than most people when I became fully aware of my mortality; life is fleeting for all humankind. That's what I used to think.

I used to think that death ended all and there was no escape from its cold, merciless grasp. I was wrong. I heard a voice in my sleep on the night after Patricia died. It said that my mother and my great-grandmother and great-grandfather were not gone forever, that I would see them again someday if I only believed in the unbelievable: that everyone has done wrong, and because of that everyone would have to die if not for the man who is my namesake, who alone was blameless, had never in his life done anything wrong, but gave up his life so that those who had done wrong would not have to die.

When I woke up, my parents told me that I had spoken in my sleep, that I had said, "Yes, Jesus, I know I've done wrong in my life, and I'm really sorry for it. I believe that you died, and that because you did, I don't have to anymore. Thank you for saving me from having to die, and for giving me the chance to meet my mother someday when you bring me to your house to stay with you from then on." That was a major turning point in my life, and I have believed and trusted in Jesus ever since then.

You remember before, when I told you that my mother couldn't bear me? I meant it literally, not figuratively; she was unable to bear me as her child, but she gave her life so that I could live, just like Jesus did for her and everybody else. This is what I used to think – and I still believe it even sixty years later – that the truth is just what Jesus said, that no man has greater love than this: than to lay down his life for another.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<br>****This is a fictional account of a hypothetical situation. Any similarities of any of these characters to real persons, alive or dead – ****with the sole exception of Jesus Christ himself – ****are purely coincidental. The moral of the story, however, is completely true: Jesus really did give his life so that everyone could live, for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God. ****So have faith, friend, and believe in Him, for ****His sacrifice is the only reason that we, as sinners, can have eternal life.**


End file.
